Origins
by ThinkingAbout
Summary: A short arc, covering the origins of some key characters. Contains adult language and themes.
1. Desertion

Night was falling, and the remaining daylight was filtered through a haze of sand and dust. The wind

battered unceasingly against rocky mountains, apparently devoid of anything living, and howled over flat,

dry plains hundreds of miles wide. It sent a fine layer of drifting dust across the figure of a young woman,

who lay supine underneath a grounded aircraft, wrestling with a dented engine-cover, the lower half of her

face wrapped in a scarf. She cursed, pounded the cover with her fist, and it sprung loose, to land on top of

her. A thin column of smoke issued from the engine, and she kicked the hot metal plate off quickly, with

another string of curses.

Two teenage boys – one wearing a monk's robes under a coat of sand and dust, the other cotton cargo

trousers and a t-shirt – stood at a safe distance, watching.

"Well," said the monk, "time to start walking."

"Okay. Do you think we can reach Tsuru-Sen'nin before dark?" the other asked.

The monk sighed, and smiled at his friend in gentle exasperation.

"No, Goku, I don't. What the…?! We're at least five-hundred miles out yet, and we've got half the Tien-Shan

mountain range, including a huge glacier, to get past first!"

"Oh. So it's going to take quite a long time to walk."

"Even if we didn't have the guizi with us, we wouldn't make it in under ten days. And that's assuming we

don't get lost."

He sat down dejectedly in the blowing sand, plucked a pebble and threw it at the fuselage. His companion

circled the beached craft, looking it over as though for damage. Then he knelt down beside the prostrate

woman, sticking his head underneath the body of the craft to watch fascinated as she pulled at a blackened

component, twisted and re-coupled frayed wires, reached into the engine cavity, burned her fingers on a

hot plate, and yanked her hand back to strike her elbow on the corner of the engine cover, cursed loudly

and kicked the underbelly of the craft.

"It's no good," she hauled herself from underneath, rose to her feet and dusted herself off, wincing as she

grazed her burned fingers on her belt; "I can't work on it until it cools down, and I have a little daylight.

We're stuck here overnight."

They clambered back inside, and closed the door behind them against the wind. The temperature was

rapidly dropping, and the wind picking up. The boys sat together, sharing a bowl of microwave chicken

wings, while Bulma washed and dressed her burned fingers, and filed her ragged fingernails – half-stripped

of sparkly green polish – down smooth, with chagrin.

"What happens if you can't fix it?" Goku wanted to know.

She shrugged, and laid backwards across three seats, holding her nails up to examine them against the light;

"I don't know. I guess we die out here. Not much chance of catching a ride home; this area was totally

cleared by the Red Army to use for missile tests."

"Huh!" Krillen's voice was acid, "Many people refused to move. So they tested their missiles on those

villages first. Half the population were starved out already by the embargo on trade with Kyrgyzstan. The

silica, iron and rare-earths mining was the only way they could buy food."

Goku looked troubled, as he licked barbecue marinade from his fingers.

"Why are you both so calm about dying stranded in the desert?" he asked.

Bulma smiled, sleepily, and answered; "Phenazepam."

"I'm not going to die out here," Krillen replied, "If you can't get this thing in the air, I'm going to start

walking. It's a dead-zone – there's bound to be smugglers, bandits, gangsters and all the scum of the world

crawling around like maggots on a carcass. I'll simply find 'em, kill 'em and steal their ride."

The boy considered his options in silence for a moment, glancing from the angry monk to the semiconscious

girl, and concluded;

"I think I'll come with you, Krillen."

Bulma giggled; "Joke's on you guys when you're walking around in circles around the desert for weeks,

slowly running out of water, and I fix this junker and fly on to the temple and get that Dragon Ball. Never

forget – you need me, and I don't need you-"

Her speech broke off, as she gestured too hard at them with one raised arm, and unbalanced herself,

crashing to the floor. She moaned, and lifted herself back onto the seats again, her elbow sliding off the

arm-rest once, twice.

"I'm really bored…" she mumbled, her head falling forward onto her chest.

"You're a pain in the ass, is what you are," Krillen muttered, rising to his feet to swing the girl into the

recovery position, cushioning her head on her abandoned jacket; "Light-weights… why is she with you

anyway, Goku? We could just as easily get a helicopter."

"I like her," his friend replied.

"Well, could you kindly just stick your dick in and get it over with, so we can ditch her?"

"I didn't mean like that. She was the first friend I ever had."

"Take it from me, the first time you do anything, including with a friend, is not necessarily the best," he said

bitterly, but made no further protest, and proceeded to eat his chicken.

Some time later, the earth began to shake, and sonic blasts sent their ears ringing and crackling. The craft

rocked and shuddered, dust and smoke howling at the windows. Bulma lay unresponsive throughout, Krillen

and Goku looked at one another with 'we're-going-to-die-now' faces. Long after midnight, the

bombardment subsided, and the dust began to settle.

As the sun rose through a red haze, the sound of an engine outside the craft, shutting off and then footsteps

approaching. The door opened, and a black-swaddled head, with infra-red goggles affixed to the front,

poked through.

"Fuck. God. You're alive!" the mask uttered.

The boys watched the figure - wreathed in black fabric - stride into the cabin. It lowered its mask, and

looked around. First at the boys, then at the unconscious woman - her dress riding up around her waist, hair

fanned out over the seats and sticking in strands to her lip-gloss - and then back to the boys.

"Never too young to get started!" he insinuated, stalking towards the limp figure.

Krillen shrugged; "Don't look at me, man!"

"What are you doing here?" Goku asked.

"I'm riding to the rescue," the man said, without taking his eyes from the girl, "I saw you crash out

yesterday, and though you might be in need of help."

"Are you helping by resuscitating our pilot with the pressure of your eyes?" Krillen demanded.

The intruder ignored them, and gently squeezed the girl's thigh.

"Very skinny," he appraised, "but pretty cute!"

Goku stepped in to defend his friend;

"Sometimes food makes her sick," he explained, "And sometimes she doesn't like to eat at all."

"So I can see," the man continued, lifting the dress further, to examine her taut belly and ribs. Then he

noticed her face, and stepped abruptly backwards.

After a moment, he was able to speak;

"You boys realise what you've got here?" he asked, full of excitement.

They shook their heads.

"This is the heiress to the largest fortune in history!" the invader continued, fervently, "you can ransom this

babe for tens of billions!"

"What's ransom?" Goku asked.

"Uuhh," Krillen was beginning to understand, "We tell her parents that she's been abducted, ask for some

money to give her back, receive the money, and give her back."

His friend pondered this, then demanded;

"But won't her family worry about her? What if they think she's really in danger? They'll be sad."

The others shared a glance, with eyebrows raised.

"Trust me, dude," Yamcha tried to reassure him, "the old man has a reputation. He won't be worried,

he'll be fucking pissed. An acquaintance of mine once ran a job to, shall we say, relocate some platinum

catalysts from the Corp. His goons were caught and taken off-country in some kind of tanker, then they had

their eyes eaten out by huge rats. They all died of infection within a month. It was fucked up. The message

was pretty clear - you don't steal from the Capsule Corp."

Goku listened, wide-eyed, Krillen more cynically.

"It's sounding like less and less of a good idea to ransom her. I don't want to get my eyes eaten. Anyway,

who the hell are you? You're obviously not here for us."

The man shrugged.

"The Red Ribbon likes to shell this area every week or so, just to freak out the Kyrgyz. For every twenty

shells fired, one won't detonate, and just thuds into the sand," he smacked one gloved fist into his palm to

demonstrate, "Hundreds of shells fired, means dozens of pristine explosive devices just sittng there. I crack

'em open, scoop out the valuable bits, sell it on to the resistance over the border."

"You're a scavenger!" Krillen diagnosed.

"I am... helping in the fight against those pillaging communist motherfuckers!"

"Uhuh. I bet you sell the explosives at a massive profit, then run away before the actual fighting begins."

"Of course! I'm not a total fucking idiot! Anyway, what the fuck are you kids doing out here in the desert

with the wealthiest bitch in the world?"

"We're looking for Dragon Balls!" Goku piped up, excitedly, before Krillen could shush him.

"The fuck's that?" the man was barely interested, "the new Pokemon Go?"

The boys glanced at one another, confused.

"Yes," Krillen decided to answer, "It's nothing. It's a stupid game. Just kids pissing about in no-man's-land…"

"Idiot boy," the man addressed Goku, "Is that a fair assessment?"

"No!" he replied, instantly, "We're looking for objects of incredible power, which we're going to use to-"

Krillen cut him off with a swift kick to the knees, which didn't stagger the boy, but made him look round to

see his friend's expression. But the damage was done, the man's interest was piqued.

"Okay," he said, slowly, "Tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna rescue you guys - you're welcome - and

transport you to wherever you need to go. And in exchange, I get in on this."

"No," said Krillen reflexively, emphatically.

"Sure," the man turned and walked to the door, raising his mask again to cover his face, "You can just wait

for sleeping beauty there to wake up, and see how far she gets ya. I'm willing to bet she doesn't know

where she's going, and it's pretty unlikely she'll be able to get this piece of shit up in the air again. Good

luck!"

Krillen sighed.

"Wait. You're a real fucker, you know that?"

The stranger nodded, happily, lowering the mask, and extended a hand.

"Name's Yamcha. And it will be my pleasure to rescue this damsel in distress."

With these words, he strode back to the unconscious figure, lifted her easily and placed her over his

shoulder, arms hanging down his back, rear exposed. He planted a kiss on her arse, and grinned at the boys.

"Let's go, kids. Gather your shit."

They sped through the desert, avoiding huge blackened craters - the sand crystallised into pools of glass at

the bottom - and hulking metal shapes, in the man's tank-like vehicle. The back was crammed with

scavenged components, so they were crammed into the front cabin. Bulma had been propped into the

furthest-right seat, her unconscious head bouncing on the head-rest. Goku enjoyed the journey, watching

with rapt interest as the sandy desert floor turned to rocks as they ascended into the mountains. AAer a

couple of hours, the vehicle turned into the mountainside itself, and - mounting boulders, and sending scree

flying - lumbered into the mouth of a cave. Once inside, they disembarked and climbed rock-cut steps to an

open space, almost the size of a football pitch, part-storehouse, part-workshop, part-home. Yamcha

dropped his burden - now squirming fitfully - onto a battered grey leather couch, and gestured the boys

towards a carved arch at the far end of the cave.

"You can wash in there. It's a subterranean stream, so it's cold as fuck, but it's clean running water. I'm

guessing you didn't get much sleep with all that racket, so I'll show you where you can sleep once you're

washed off. It's also the crapper, FYI, so just remember to piss downstream of where your buddy's washing,

okay?"

They nodded, Krillen understanding, Goku blankly accepting, and headed in the direction he'd indicated.

"We'll ditch him as soon as we can," the former muttered to the latter, "He's a liability, and I don't like him."

His friend nodded.

"I don't like him either. He wanted to ransom Bulma."

The man took a flask of water and a hand-rolled cigarette of some unknowable substance, and sat on the

floor with his back to the couch, waiting for the woman to wake. She did so, with a moan. He turned, and

placed a hand on her forehead.

"You're burning up, sweetheart," he said, softly, "Did we take a little more than we should have?"

Her hands raised to her temples with a grimace.

"Oh! Fuck! My head's splittng," her eyes flickered open, startlingly blue.

The man offered the flask of water, and a yellow pill. She took the water, and drank gratefully, but eyed the

pill with suspicion.

"What?"

"Mephedrone," the man answered, simply, "You've had a massive dose of a tranquiliser, so what you need

to counter it is a stimulant. It'll help."

She recoiled, eyes clamped shut against the dim light of the cave.

"That's not how biochemistry works! I just need some sleep…" her head laid back down on the couch,

before she registered the man in front of her, and her eyes snapped open again, "Who the fuck are you?

And where the fuck am I?"

He popped the pill himself, and leaned in to kiss her, passing the pill on to her with his tongue. She rose to

the kiss, and pushed the pill back. With his face centimetres from hers, he answered;

"You're in my home. I rescued you from shell-fire. I'm going to get you and your buddies to where you need

to be, in exchange for a cut of the proceeds."

She swooned back on the arm-rest, and admired his face from a distance.

"I don't remember that decision being run past me."

"You were KO'd," he explained, "your deputy answered on your behalf."

"Fucking Goku!" she exclaimed, instantly clasping her hands to the sides of her head against her own voice.

"Nope, actually the little one. He seemed to think you'd be be:er off with me than dying slowly in the

desert alone. Funny…"

"I had it under control!" she exploded, before falling backwards onto the couch, "I was going to repair my

aircraft and fly on! Ow! Why does my head hurt so much?"

"Because you're a fucking idiot," he explained, stroking a hand down her face, smoothing her hair, "But

that's okay, because fucking idiots are the best kind of idiots."

He kissed her again and then, with a wink, he rose to his feet, leaving her blushing and watching him, as

though hypnotised.

"Ah, your friends have finished washing," he observed, casually, "Maybe you'd like to clean yourself up?"

Without waiting for an answer, he lifted her and carried her - struggling ineffectually - to the stream, and

lowered her in. She shrieked at the sudden cold, punched at his arms, and cursed him while he laughed.

Then he relinquished his hold, leaving her sittng hip-deep in freezing water, and walked out. She splashed

weekly to the bank, shivering, and removed her sopping dress to wring it out. Then - after looking around to

make sure she was alone - she leaned back against the partition wall, and slid her hand down inside her

underwear, rubbing herself until she came, recalling her moments with the mysterious scarred man and

building them into a fantasy.

At length, she redressed in her - now damp - dress, finger-combed her wet hair, and rejoined the others in

the main cave. The boys slept on the couch, and the man stood at his workshop bench, taking apart an

extinct shell. Without turning, he handed her a hot cup of bi:er tea, and a block of chocolate. She blew

steam from the surface of the cup, and nibbled unenthusiastically at the sticky half-melted chocolate.

"Why did you pick us up?" she asked, approaching the bench to inspect his salvage.

"You weren't going to get them out of there," he answered, "That piece of shit wasn't going to fly again. It's

a miracle it didn't crash out miles ago. Why did you take such a stupid risk?"

"I… I thought I could handle it. I've never not been able to fix something," her voice was subdued, "You

know you can get a lot more out of these things if you use mag floatation to extract the aluminium from the

iron filings?"

She began to demonstrate, sieving the silver from the black particles. He watched with interest, and ate the

chocolate that she'd discarded.

"Your daddy augmented you for brains, huh?" he asked.

She shrugged, "Maybe I would have just been naturally brilliant. But yes, he did. Can you understand why I

don't want to be rescued by a half-assed thief in a winnebago?"

"Ouch! Sorry! I won't do you a favour next time."

"I didn't mean that. I'm not ungrateful," she faced him, her breath catching at the sight of him, "I guess I'm

trying to save face." She jerked a thumb at the pair sleeping at the far side of the room.

"Aha. You've got nothing to worry about, baby-doll. Idiot-boy worships you, and the li:le one would follow

his friend anywhere for a chance of getting his end away. He's in deep."

She rolled her eyes.

"Why are you so cynical? Goku is my friend, and Krillen is out to get revenge against the Reds for his family.

He doesn't want to stick it to Goku!"

"Oh really?" he asked, "And what's your interest in all this?"

She smiled; "Scientific. I want to study these things. They could save the world…"

"Ha! Even you're not stupid enough to believe that!" he paced across the floor, "The world is irrevocably

fucked, babe."

She stalked around to join him, and pulled the front of his shirt down so that his face met hers.

"Watch me. I'll show you."

Then released him, and paced back to the warm circle where her friends lay, and stretched out to sleep

between them and the fire.


	2. Afterlife

After three days of driving, almost constantly, the mood inside Yamcha's massive tank-like truck was

mutinous. The crew of four completely filled the front of the cab – the back was rammed with

clanking, raCling machine parts, reeking of oil and unburned fuel – and the weather was

unrelentingly hot and dry, dusty sunlight unbroken by cloud. Yamcha and Bulma now sat at opposite

sides of the cabin, but sll bickered constantly. Krillen would periodically yell at them both to shut

up, with increasing ferocity. Goku sat in the middle, bored and restless, watching the unchanging

dust bowl roll past through the toughened glass of the windscreen, a dingy grey-brown monotone.

Nobody's mood was improved by cramped muscles, a sheen of sweat that stuck them, one to the

other, and restricted food and water rations. Still, the mountains were growing closer, and the end of

scorched craters indicated that they had passed out of Red Ribbon-held territory.

A d-tour had been made, following the old pot-holed road south-west to a border settlement, where

Yamcha thought he might be able to unload his salvage. To call the place a town would have been to

stretch a point to absurdity; the buildings had been largely bombed out of existence at the beginning

of the century, as part of an ambitious but ultimately futile Chinese land-grab. From the rubble,

ephemeral structures had been erected, reinforced and roofed by scrap metal, plasc and rubbish,

their walls pockmarked by bullet holes. A system of wells and grubby springs – the main reason for

the settlement's existence – allowed sickly, shrubby plants to grow in patches among the detritus.

Around the brackish springs, the ground was churned into deep, greyish mud by the hooves of cattle.

A miasma of decay, and plastic smoke, hung over the settlement in spite of the driving wind.

Yamcha parked within sight of the edge of town, and they disembarked. Bulma stared at the place,

horrified, realising that there would be no hot shower or clean bed here.

"Where are the people?" Goku asked, observing foot-prints and tyre tracks, as yet unfilled by the

blowing sand.

Krillen - who had seen scenes like this before - broke into a run, heading for the centre of the

settlement. On the way, he passed crumpled bodies, lying against broken walls, or amidst heaps of

fresh rubble. Blood ran sluggishly down walls, pooled among stones, and soaked blackly into the

sand. Bulma moved among the bodies, checking for signs of life, and examining their injuries.

"Goku! Be careful! It's dangerous!" she called down the road to the retreating form of Goku, as he

sprinted a"er Krillen; "What the fucking..?!"

Yamcha strode along the road a"er them, a semi-automatic rifle raised, checking doorways and gaps

between buildings for living figures. Some huddled, hidden, but did not approach or attack.

"I don't understand!" she said, her voice shaking, "There are no bullet-wounds, no burning or

blistering that would indicate a ki blast. They seem to have suffered massive blunt-force trauma to

the spine, ribs and skull, probably from high-velocity impact against the structures. But how..?"

The man bent to pick up a battered hand-gun that lay beside the body of one of the victims, sniffed

gingerly at the barrel, and opened to clip to extract the ammunition.

"Unfired," he concluded, "I'd guess he was about to have a go at whatever it was that got him."

They walked on through the crooked, dusty street, following the trail of casualties. One was scattered

across the middle of the road – limbs rent from limbs, and the head split clean open. On sight, Bulma

cried out in shock, and staggered to lean against a low rubble wall, clenching her eyes shut against

the terrible spread of bloody limbs and offal.

Yamcha spotted a huddle of living people further along the road, and ran on. Krillen and Goku were

already on site, amongst an angry crowd pushing against the remains of a large brick-clad house that

had, until recently, housed several families in partitioned cell-like rooms. A fresh break in one wall

showed where something had smashed inside, and bodies were being lifted from the rubble. The

boys leaped inside, careful to avoid the rescuers and the victims, and disappeared into the darkness.

Once inside, they sped through the cluttered maze of tiny rooms, looking into each one for bodies or

some sign of the threat. Krillen stopped to scoop up a howling child, carried it to a cloth-covered hole

in the wall that functioned as a window, and called out for somebody to take it. Goku climbed the

stairs in bounds, turned a corner to investigate the first room branching off the landing, and was

knocked flying by a powerful blow to the chest. He gasped for breath, and tried to call out to warn

his friend, but his assailant was already on him, stomping crudely on his spine with one foot, trying

to grind him into the floor. He twisted, rolling out of reach, and leapt to his feet to charge at the

figure in a hot red rage. He stopped short before striking – the creature had curled into a ball,

crouched on the floor with its arms protecting its head. It was shaking, and whimpering.

He approached it cautiously, taking in its unusual appearance – grey-skinned, with gouges from

bullets leaking viscous red-black blood; black hair in disarray; a uniform of the Red Ribbon Army

corps of officers. The handle of a knife protruded from between its shoulder-blades.

He knelt down beside the suffering figure, and carefully placed a hand on its arm. It raised its head,

and looked at him, ceasing to whine for a moment. Its eyes had once been blue, but were now

clouded grey and glaucous; the face yellow-grey and waxen, the mouth open in wordless distress and

upset. It was crying.

He soothed it, in the way that his father had soothed him when he was a child and unwell or

frightened of the thunder, stroking its arm gently, and murmuring in a low tone.

"Would you like me to take that knife out for you?" he asked, softly. The thing showed no signs of

understanding him, but responded to the soothing sound of his voice, and moaned wordlessly.

Carefully, he took the handle of the knife, braced the creature's back with the other, and tugged

hard. It flew free, with a splatter of coagulated blood. The thing howled, and backed away from him

across the floor, crying anew. He held up the knife to demonstrate, and gestured at his own back;

"I took it out. I'm sorry if I hurt you."

Then he placed the blade on the floor, and edged carefully back to the creature, now curled up on its

side, with its back facing him. He knelt by its head again, and wiped its face free of tears and snot

with the hem of his t-shirt. Its cries subsided to a whimper, and it curled towards him, seeking safety.

"Can you understand me?" he asked, although doubting it, "Are you the one who hurt all those

people down there?"

It did not respond, but looked up at him, unhappily. The skin was damp, waxy and cold.

Krillen came sprinting up the stairs, and yelled to him. Again, the creature recoiled, frightened, and

Goku motioned with his hand for his friend to be quiet.

"I think I've found it, Krillen," he said, without moving so as not to upset the huddled shape, "It's

certainly strong enough to throw people against walls. But I don't think it meant to do it."

Krillen approached, cautiously, mindful of his friend's precarious position, and spoke in the same

hushed tone.

"What is it? Human or no?"

Goku shrugged; "It looks kinda human. But kinda… not."

Close enough to see its features now, Krillen nodded his agreement;

"It certainly looks sick."

Goku carefully removed his backpack, and extracted a compact flask of water, and a plastic-wrapped

bread-roll. These he offered gently to the creature, allowing it to gulp down the warm water, and to

gum delightedly on the food. After this, it laid its head on his lap for several seconds, before choking

and writhing. Abruptly, the mashed bread, amidst a foul-smelling acidic brew, was vomited again onto

Goku's legs, and the creature moaned in pain.

"I think it's guts are done for, dude." Krillen offered, stepping backwards reflexively.

Goku looked down at the unhappy creature, and smoothed its hair away from its clammy brow.

Downstairs, Bulma and Yamcha watched with increasing trepidation as the last of the crushed bodies

was extracted from the rubble, and carried through the furious mourning crowd. Then the ranks

parted for a group of younger men and women carrying jerry cans plugged with wads of fabric.

These they set down, and began to light the protruding end of the rags. They ignited instantly, and

the cans were lifted and thrown into the ruined building. Adrenaline shot through Bulma's body like

lightning, and she ran for the nearest window, and, without thinking, leapt through it into the flame-carpeted

room.

Yamcha hollered after her in vain, and watched hopelessly as the flames quickly spread through the

downstairs of the building. The woman dashed up the stairs, screaming at the top of her lungs;

"Goku! Krillen!"

Over the roar and crackle of flames, she heard an answering cry, and ran towards it, smoke already

obscuring her vision, and climbing down inside her lungs, scratching at her throat.

"We have to go!" she yelled, scarcely noticing the pale hunched figure, "They've torched the place!"

This was, by now, not news to them, and Goku was already back on his feet and pulling urgently at

the unhappy creature's arm.

"Come on now," he urged, as gently as he could, "You've got to follow me outside, otherwise we're

going to get hurt."

The thing was wild with fear, howling and trying to crawl down into the floor, which was noticeably

heating by the second. Goku lost patience, and lifted it by its legs, throwing it over his shoulder. He

ran to the window and jumped, flailing his legs to get as far from the building as possible, before

landing heavily, holding the creature above his head to protect it from the impact. Krillen landed not

far away, carrying Bulma.

As soon as they hit the ground, both boys began to run, trying to outstrip the furious crowd that

followed on their heels. Yamcha, seeing them, sprinted in the opposite direction, back through the

crowd towards where the vehicle was sll parked on the outskirts of town. He reached it in minutes,

gunned the engine, and wheeled it around to follow the line of the settlement in roughly the

direction his friends had taken.

Krillen and Goku were faster than their pursuers, but the terrified creature was uncooperative,

maddened with panic. Bullets whistled past them, ricocheting off stone and slicing through canvas

and plasc sheets. They thudded into the body of the unhappy creature, which moaned and whined

with pain. One clipped the edge of Bulma's thigh, and she cursed loudly, furiously as blood trickled

down Krillen's back. Goku signalled his friend, and they took off into the air, heading straight up,

weaving to evade the attacks. Krillen called over the noise of the rushing air, and the howling

creature - now kicking ferociously at Goku's thighs and knees - when he saw the vehicle speeding

along the ground, rounding the corner of the settlement, weaving to avoid the hostile crowd, coming

under fire. They dived towards it, landing on the farther side, to use the body of the vehicle as a

shield. Goku heaved the creature into the back, amongst the machine parts, and leapt in after it,

slamming the door behind him. Krillen lifted Bulma into the cab, scrambled up behind her, and

breathlessly motioned Yamcha to drive. This he did, with little encouragement, speeding for the

distant grey line of the mountain range.

"You kids are too crazy for me," Yamcha said, laconically, in spite of the massive damage to his

vehicle, "Running into towns under attack is one thing, jumping into flaming buildings is where I

draw the line."

"The town wasn't under attack," Krillen responded, now that his breath had returned, "There was a…

I don't know, a person? I think? They look pretty sick, I think, and they … he… didn't know what he

was doing.

Bulma squirmed in her seat, reaching for a pack strapped to the roof of the cab. She rooted through

it, pulled a face at the inadequacy of the medical supplies it contained, before pulling out a sterilising

blue light, which she directed at the aching gouge in her leg. There was a strip of flesh missing, and

the edges of the cut were singed. Blood dripped steadily from the unscorched areas of damage, to

collect on the floor. She shuddered with revulsion, and addressed the two men to distract herself.

"Pull over when you can, I'm worried about that thing in the back with Goku. Whatever it is, it's

psycho."

Yamcha took his eyes from the road to object, but noced her injury.

"Jesus Christ, B! What did you do to your leg?"

She glared at him, uncapping a canister of foaming wound dressing, which she sprayed liberally into

the disinfected wound, where it expanded rapidly, and set to cover the gap in airtight, stretchy

polymer.

"I cut myself shaving. What do you think? They shot me."

With a roll of his eyes, he pulled the car over by the side of the road, and shut the engine off. The sun

was lowering towards the horizon, and the temperature dropping below stiflingly hot towards

perishingly cold. Bulma levered herself carefully from her seat, opened the door, and took a

hesitating, painful step outside the vehicle. She rapped carefully with her knuckles on the side of the

van and then - hearing nothing from inside - threw the side door open.

"Goku…?" she asked, as loudly as she dared.

The boy's head poked out from behind a seven-foot shell case. He looked concerned, and beckoned

her to come. She climbed carefully over the debris, picking her way round the shell to stand by her

crouched friend near the opposite side of the van. The creature lay on the floor in a semi-conscious

state, its breath laboured, its limbs twitching fitfully.

She shone a light carefully over it, and knelt by its head to examine it more closely. She reached for

its left hand to take its pulse, and recoiled from the cold, clammy feel of its skin. Her eyes took in the

sticky black morass of blood around its wounds, the almost sightless eyes, the spasming muscles.

Then she looked at Goku's troubled face.

"Um… I think your friend is dead," she whispered, gently, as though worried the thing might be able

to understand her.

"How can he be dead?" he asked, "He's moving, he can speak and breathe."

"I know, Goku. I don't get it either, but he doesn't have a pulse, and he's… decomposing."

The creature moaned softly, seeming to choke, and coughed a rattling cough.

"I'd have to put him in a scanner to know for certain, but I'd guess he's been augmented. They'll have

replaced his heart with a battery, and used a convection current to power his other organs. I've never

heard of it having been done successfully before, and this looks like it's gone horribly wrong."

"Who did it?" the boy asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"I don't know. At a guess, the Red Ribbon. They're the only conglomerate - other than the Capsule

Corp - with sufficiently advanced technology to accomplish this. And we don't deal in human

subjects…"

He appeared on the edge of tears, watching the creature write against the cold floor, coughing

feebly.

"Why?" he asked, "He's wearing their uniform. He's one of them, why would they do this to him?"

"I'm sorry, I just don't know." she allowed the silence to settle for several moments, before

prompting, gently;

"We have to do something for him, Goku. He's dying anyway, but slowly and painfully. We should put

him out of his misery."

The boy nodded, understanding, and lifted the wretched creature onto his back once more to carry it

from the back of the vehicle. Outside, Yamcha and Krillen had taken the risk of lighting a fire for

warmth, and commenced to cook a small portion of their remaining supplies of food. Goku walked

slowly from the circle of flickering light, and away from the road for almost a mile. Bulma initially

tried to follow him, but her leg would not permit her to walk more than a few shuddering steps.

Yamcha offered an arm to lead her back to the fire, and sat her on a decrepit folding chair. She

hushed his questions about her leg, and the creature, and Goku's whereabouts, and listened and

watched for the familiar flash of energy and sizzling blast wave that signified a ki attack on the pitiful

creature. This arrived within half an hour, and she finally sank her head onto her hands, and

acknowledged her own pain. She hid her face from the others as they prepared the meal, ate, and

cleaned the cook-pots, allowing herself space to cry silently.

Krillen sat by Goku when he returned, almost an hour later. He devoured his food in minutes, and

drank the small ration of water.

"I'm with you now," he said, sadness falling away to be replaced by anger, "the Red Ribbon Army

have to be stopped."

His friend nodded, grimly.


	3. Thalassa

The decision having been made to embark on a full-scale war against the Red Ribbon, training and

provisioning began in earnest. With great excitement, Bulma dedicated her Okinawa house as

mission HQ, and set about enlarging and refitting the gym, and creating a strong-room for the

storage of weapons. Yamcha flew Krillen and Goku in on a stormy September afternoon, coming to

land on a long white sandy beach fringed with waving palm trees. The sea was dark and roiling, and

purple-grey clouds threatened low overhead. The three disembarked, rucksacks hanging from their

shoulders, and made their way inland.

The house was an old conversion, built centuries ago in the vernacular style, with timber-panelled

walls painted red and gold, and a deeply-sloped roof of red ceramic tiles. A wide porch, enclosed

with wood columns, ran around the outside of the ground floor, and a balcony overhung this. The

interior was seamlessly modern, the tatami were heated from below, the paper walls contained

plasma screens, LED lights glowed from alcoves. She showed each to a bedroom, facing onto the

balcony, on the first floor, and instructed them to meet for supper later.

Krillen dropped his rucksack on the floor of his room, and then walked along the balcony to Goku's

door.

"This place is wild, man," he said, examining an antique enamelled cabinet, into which his friend had

stuffed his few posessions, "I'm nervous to touch anything in case I break it! How much do you think

this place cost to kit out? And this is just her crash pad?"

Goku shrugged, unconcerned; "She seems to like spending money. I hope Yamcha doesn't steal

everything."

"What are we doing here anyway?" the boy replied, rhetorically, "We're preparing to go to war,

shouldn't we be sleeping in a basher in the jungle? This is more like a five-star vacation!"

"I don't think Bulma enjoys camping out. Remember when that Tien guy hauled us out of our tents

and imprisoned us in that temple last time? She actually seemed relieved."

"Yeah, I think that was more because he didn't kill us, than not having to spend another night

sleeping with three big, stinky men in a nylon sack, half-way up a mountain."

"So you're going to stay here, then?" Goku wanted to know.

"I don't see any reason not to. I mean, sure, it's not our natural habitat, and it makes a total mockery

of my vow of poverty. But even monks are allowed a vacay now and then, right?"

"I guess so. I mean, at least the food's gotta be good."

Their concession to the supper invitation was to wash their hands and faces, put on clean shirts, and

Goku briefly battled his hair with a comb and some water. The dining room looked out to the south,

towards the seashore, now in darkness, and inwards to a small courtyard garden with running

fountains and a koi pond. The table was laid with a magnificent buffet of fresh sea-food, salads, rice

in various configurations, and delicate ceramic carafes of sake.

Goku was about to fall on it with delight, raising fistuls of rice to his face, when Krillen caught his

eye, and shook his head.

"Indoor manners, buddy," he muttered.

Bulma sat at one end of the table, her hair pinned back, face made up, throat and ears glittering with

expensive stones, and body wrapped in a clinging black cocktail dress. Yamcha to her right gazed at

her appreciatively, his eyes flicking to her cleavage, the curve of her waist and hips.

The boys occupied the other two sides of the table, and she rose to fill their cups. Goku sniffed

doubtfully at his, but raised it anyway at Krillen's cue.

"Here's to victory," their hostess said, and drained the small cup of wine, "I don't know about you

guys, but I've never done a war before. I'm pretty excited."

"Yuh," Yamcha agreed, half-heartedly, still wondering how on earth he'd become embroiled in a

declaration of war, "My experience of gang turf wars probably won't translate very well. The Reds

have soldiers willing to die for the cause. I don't intend to do that."

Krillen nodded in agreement; "Better to run away from a losing fight, and live to fight again

tomorrow."

"Stop talking about losing and dying!" Bulma complained, "We don't even have a plan yet, and you

can't anticipate failure until you have some idea of what you want to achieve!"

"That's easy," Goku responded, mouth full of rice, "We want to beat them. Force them to give up all

the stuff that doesn't belong to them."

"It's not that easy," Yamcha spoke from the position of greatest experience, "The victory has to be

decisive, it has to be public, and we have to not die in the process, otherwise we've already failed.

What are we doing for tactics anyway, B?"

"Trickery, diplomacy and hard cash," she smiled, cryptically, before going on to explain, "The Tsuru

Sen'Nin order have offered their support for our hunt for the Dragon Balls. They're giving their orb,

provided that it stays with Tien at all times, and that once we're finished with them, the entire

collection is restored to the Kami shrine. Fair enough. I don't want the hassle of protecting them

anyway. So Tien is sworn to stay with us and keep us safe until such time as we unite all the Dragon

Balls. I spoke with him briefly back on the mountain. He's a seriously weird guy, but he knows a lot

about fighting wars.

"Then of course, we need a tactician. Daddy recommended a mercenary he's hired before to

investigate and put a stop to a smuggling racket that was creating problems for our pharmaceutical

division. She's currently working for one side or another in the Greece-Macedonia conflict. We just

need to offer her more than they're paying.

"Finally, I thought it might be a good idea to get an army. We just need to find a nation that really

hates the Red Ribbon – shouldn't be hard to come by – and persuade them to support us. We select

a couple of high-profile targets for attack, you guys punch your way in with a task-force of soldiers,

and cause some damage. I can take care of the rebuild afterwards."

Stunned silence, broken at last by a cheer from Goku, and Yamcha's expression of disbelief;

"Holy shit. You've actually given this some thought."

"I'm so excited for this. I'm going to start tomorrow, setting off by air to the Tien Shan mountains to

pick up the big guy, and then heading for Edessa. You guys can come with me, or you're welcome to

stay here and start getting in shape."

Krillen chewed thoughtfully on a length of squid.

"If we fail in these attacks, the Reds are going to retaliate hard. I hope you're going to let your new

recruits know what they're getting into."

Tien was a docile passenger, although unaccustomed to air travel, he sat quietly, speaking only to

respond in monosyllables to Yamcha's stream of questions about the Dragon Balls, the Kami shrine,

and his monastic order. From time to time, he would glance out the window at the Central Asian

landscape speeding by, far below, at hundreds of miles per hour. At this, he would suppress a

shudder, and turn back to the inside of the cabin.

Over the Aegean, the craft descended slowly, banking north to avoid the airspace over Istanbul and

Thessaloniki. Landing amongst the mountains was tricky, and the tumultuous air buffeted the small

craft, to the consternation of their new passenger. Nonetheless, they landed safely, making use of a

disused stretch of mountain road as a runway, and continued on foot towards the city of Edessa.

For the past seven years, the city had been on the front line of a simmering war between Greece and

the Republic of Macedonia, aggravated by renewed insurgency by the Albanian minority in the

northern country. The conflicts were spontaneous and scrappy, a few lives lost here or there, mostly

mercenary or low-ranking national armed forces. The particular mercenary they sought, and her

cadre of female mercenary foot-soldiers, had been employed by both sides at some point in the

recent past. Bulma quickly established that they were currently on the Macedonian side, and could

be found in a decrepit hotel that had been seized by the government during the civilian evacuation

of the city, and handed over for the mercenaries' use as barracks.

The visitors arrived as night was falling, and the grubby foyer was busy with muscled women,

carrying armour, ordnance and equipment from place to place. It took Bulma a few tries to find one

who spoke English, of whom she could ask where to find their leader; they were directed to the hotel

bar.

There a blonde woman sat on a high stool, with a tablet device open on the bar, on which she was

scrolling over terrain, and planting coloured flags, indicating the position of friendly and enemy-held

zones. A black cigarette hung from her lips, and a half-full bottle of whiskey by her elbow. They were

surprised initially at how young she was – certainly no more than twenty-five – and by her delicate,

almost pretty, features. Her hair was bright and soft, under a coating of dust and mud; her body was

lithe and muscular, in full view, as she wore only shorts and a bra; her skin was tanned, extensively

scarred and tattooed; her nose was slightly sunburned, and a scatter of freckles dusted her cheeks;

her eyes were large and green, and flashed towards them as soon as they entered.

She addressed them initially in Greek, at which Yamcha and Bulma were confused, but Tien replied

easily, before adding;

"Perhaps it would be easier for my companions if we were to converse in English."

She nodded, curtly, but did not stand or approach them, allowing them to stand in the doorway,

watching them to see what they would do.

"Do I know you?" she asked, a hostile Texan drawl, muffled by the cigarette.

Bulma moved to join her at the bar, flustered;

"You don't know me, but you've worked for my father. I'm Bulma, and I'd like to hire you for a

campaign. That is, if you're available."

"Capsule Corp, that's right," the woman nodded slowly, in recognition, "Y'all are good customers.

Paid out on time, didn't get funny about the contract, didn't ask too much about the whys and

wherefores. What can I do for you, Miss Capsule?"

"Um… I'm not sure where to start… that is… I… We want to go to war against the Red Ribbon Army."

"Okay," she gestured with her cigarette at them, "Just the three of you?"

"No," Bulma laughed, stiffly, "There are some others as well. We've got a few good fighters, and we'd

also like to try to recruit an army. Basically, we just need you to give the strategic and tactical

direction, and to lead the strikes."

The woman finally smiled, broadly;

"Now that sounds like more fun than tradin' bullets with these cluless shit-kickers.

Sit down! I'll get ya a drink, and let's talk terms."

With which words, she rose from her seat, pulled three more stools into a rough circle, and then

reached behind the bar to draw out four grimy glasses. Into each, she poured a generous measure of

liquor, and passed them round, keeping one for herself.

"My terms are as follows," the speech sounded practiced, "Five-thousand US dollars per day under

normal conditions, that is to say, movement of troops, plannin' and preparin' for the strike. An

additional fifteen-thousand per day danger money under combat conditions, that is to say, when

we're engagin' the enemy, or carryin' out any operations I deem to be more than usually dangerous.

I supply my own equipment, which is included in the price, and I will arm you and your folk, should

you wish it. I want the first four months normal salary up-front, and the remainder on successful

completion of the mission under agreed criteria. I drill your fighters, and make the assessment as to

which tasks I believe they can handle. You do not argue with me. You do not question my decisions.

Should the mission fail, or y'all die, you do not have to pay me, provided that you followed my

direction to the letter. Should you disobey my orders and the mission fails, I am not liable. Clear so

far?"

Bulma looked at her companions, then nodded.

"Now missy, I assume you'll be the one payin' me, as you look like the only one as has a dime to your

name?"

She nodded again; "I can do cash, crypto-currency, whatever you need."

"Good. Crypto's fine. I need somebody to underwrite the contract, in case o' your death before the

completion of the mission. I don't give a shit who, but somebody's gotta be liable."

"I guess that would be my father. I'll get him to send over his signature."

"I don't need a signature, what do you think this is, a fuckin' bank? I need to know who I go see if

your pretty little head gets blown up by a Red round. If that's your Daddy, that's fine with me."

Bulma nodded, trying not to imagine her head being blown up.

"Do you…" she swallowed, and tried again, "Do you need to finish up here first? I mean, when can

you start?"

The woman answered instantly;

"I'm fuckin' bored of this shit-hole, I can start now."

She threw the tablet at which she had been making her tactical decisions against the wall behind the

bar. It collided with two empty bottles, sending them crashing to the floor, and then struck a dusty

mirror, which fell in pieces.

"Do we have a deal then?" Bulma asked, hesitantly.

"On one condition," the woman said, and extinguished her cigarette against the bar-top, and fixed

Tien with her eyes; "I want a bite o' this beef-cake."

He did not react, but Bulma laughed uncertainly on his behalf.

"Uuh, that could be tricky to arrange. I think he belongs to a celibate order."

"Shit! Such a fuckin' waste of a damn fine man!" she exclaimed, and sighed, "How 'bout you then,

princess?"

Bulma turned pale, and shook her head.

"Um, no thank you, but thanks all the same. I'm not… I mean…"

"I'm just yankin' your chain, sugar. You're too skinny for my taste. I suggest we take off, pronto. It's

gonna be a melee here tonight, and I don't think you wanna go payin' that danger money straight off

the bat. I'll get my shit, and we can hit the road."

She slammed the rest of her drink down, and strode from the room. Once the door banged shut

behind her, Bulma laughed again.

"She's totally crazy!"

"I'll say," Yamcha agreed, drinking Tien's untouched glass, "She didn't even hit on me. I'd definitely go

for a piece of that ass."

"We must be cautious as to the extent to which we trust her," Tien mused, ignoring him, "If she is

willing to drop an existing contract without notice, you should not assume that she will serve you

with anything resembling loyalty."

Bulma shrugged,

"That's fine, I can always pay her more than anybody else. I have no doubt she'll make the most of

that. Besides, you heard her – she's bored of this little territorial squabble. Taking on the Red Ribbon

Army has to be more of a challenge, if nothing else."

The new addition to their band reappeared in under an hour, now dressed in fatigues and armour,

and carrying a kit-bag almost the same size as herself. She marched alongside them to the aircraft,

and fell asleep virtually the instant her head met the seat back.

Bulma had plenty of leisure to repent her decision in the next six weeks, with the volatile woman

leading her troops. Regularly her mercenary would fly into a rage, or descend into a raw, reckless

mood when she would stay on the attack until physically beaten down. She would take off into town,

and return so wasted that she couldn't find her bedroom, and fall asleep in the stairwell, shirt torn

and vomit-stained. Twice she almost burned down her room by passing out with a lit cigarette in her

mouth. Once, she woke up the house in the middle of the night by calling out in her sleep in an

attitude of rage and terror, before crying piteously like a lost child. When asked in the morning, she

had no memory of this experience, and laughed it off. Occasionally, she would try to seduce Tien,

lying down naked in his bed and waiting for him to come, then acting offended when he evicted her

into the corridor.

Still, her leadership was impeccable, and she maintained every confidence in her ability to bring the

war to her allies' side. Finally, it was her idea to approach the tiny principality of Xumi Shan for

support of their endeavour, which ultimately brought them success.


End file.
